


Painted Dolls In The Highway Truck Stop Stalls

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Fist Fights, M/M, Rough Sex, Van Days, fighting to fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 20:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12154095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: The thing about Patrick - the one thing you absolutely have to remember about Patrick fucking Stump - is that he has a habit, a ridiculous little habit, of not engaging correctly with his surroundings.And the thing about Pete - the most important, all-consuming fact about Pete goddamn Wentz - is that he doesn’t seem capable of learning the first time around. Or the second. Or the three hundred and eighth.





	Painted Dolls In The Highway Truck Stop Stalls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laudanum_cafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum_cafe/gifts).



> Apparently I don't have enough to write so... There's this! 
> 
> A gift for the ever-wonderful laudanum_cafe - the very reason my phone's predictive text suggests "bottom" every time I type "power".
> 
> Artwork by Das_verlorene_Kind who is just ridiculously and immensely talented both as an author and an artist. Go and read her stuff and check out her blog at http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/ right away!

The thing about Patrick - the one thing you absolutely have to remember about Patrick fucking Stump - is that he has a habit, a ridiculous little habit, of not engaging correctly with his surroundings. So - and this is just an example, don't, like _quote_ Pete on this or anything - he’ll be so busy humming along to his iPod that he doesn’t see the semi truck bearing down on him. Or he’ll be so engrossed in his Nintendo that he doesn’t notice everyone else piling into the van until they realise twenty miles later that his seat is empty and turn back to find him. Still playing his Nintendo.

And the thing about Pete - the most important, all-consuming fact about Pete goddamn Wentz - is that he doesn’t seem capable of learning the first time around. Or the second. Or the three hundred and eighth.

Three oh nine could always be the charm though. He tells himself so as he glances over the backrest of the bench seat in the van at Patrick, flushed and sweating, his cock gripped in his right hand as he fucks himself slowly. And sure, it’s on the tip of Pete’s tongue to tell him to knock that shit off - loudly, loud enough for Andy and Joe to hear - but there are other things he’d rather do with the tip of his tongue. So he watches.

He’s subtle though, a glance from the corner of his eye as he feigns sleep in the dark van, Patrick’s cock plunging in and out of shadows from streetlights as they roll down the freeway. He thinks Patrick’s close, it’s there in stuttered breathing and mangled moans that drip like honey from sugared lips. Other things could drip from his lips, Pete decides, maybe not as sweet but far more fun. 

He’s doing this on purpose. Has to be. There’s not a goddamn fibre of Pete’s being that doesn’t believe that Patrick knows what he’s fucking doing. He palms at his own stiff dick but it’s not enough, so _unsatisfying_ , not- _“Fuck, Pete…”_ It’s a ghost of noise, barely heard, barely spoken but it burns in the air and jolts on pulsing atoms between them to strike a throbbing beat in Pete’s groin. 

“Yeah?” Fuck, he didn’t realise he’d moved but he’s pushed to his knees, chest, stomach and - thick, hard - cock pressed tight to the backrest. Well, _that_ escalated quickly.

“Jesus fuck, Wentz,” Patrick tries to be all of the things to all of the people as he valiantly strives to shove his dick back into his pants whilst simultaneously throwing a punch at Pete’s head. He misses on both counts, his cock still lolling free as his balled fist bounces harmlessly off Pete’s shoulder. He flushes - much the same colour as the head of his cock - garbled words sticking thick in his throat as he tries once again for modesty. “What the fuck… You fucking… Just go to… _Fuck!”_

“You said my name,” Pete raises an eyebrow because Patrick _did_. He fucking _heard_ him. 

“I did _not,”_ there's an almost charming level of affront to his tone - like Pete's caught him stealing the last can of soda - and he’s succeeded at getting his cock back into his pants which is, well, it’s just a fucking shame really.

“Were you jerking off?” Pete asks, playful and light. This time the fist doesn’t miss, a burst of hot pain exploding in his jaw as knuckles connect with skin like car crashes. “Ow! Little fucking…”

Pete trails off because somehow he’s slithering over the backrest, grabbing at cotton and denim and skin and dodging fists and sneakers and - _ow!_ fucking _teeth_ apparently - until he lands, sprawled out, across Patrick’s shuddering body. Patrick is a snarl of bucking hips and flailing limbs, of bellowed rage and hissed curses that don’t quite make sense. Patrick’s also still hard.

“The fuck is going on back there?” Andy calls, eyes on Pete in the rearview as he rears up, palm pressed to Patrick’s cheek and mashing his face into the stained upholstery as pale hands slap at him wildly.

“Just beating the shit out of Patrick,” he responds brightly.

“Get the fuck _off_ me, _motherfucker!”_ Patrick roars and Pete yelps as teeth sink into his palm. He leans down, face pressed to Patrick’s cheek as he pins him with bracketed hips and a wrist caught in each hand. Patrick falls silent as Pete presses down, presses in and presses his cock hard against Patrick’s.

“Calm - the fuck - _down.”_ Patrick shivers against him but stills. He's still wound tight as a coiled spring but he's not struggling and not fucking _biting._

“Try not to kill him,” Andy sighs, attention back on the road which is exactly where it fucking _should_ be.

“No promises,” Pete calls back lightly, roaring with pain as Patrick - sensing his momentary advantage - slams his forehead, hard, into Pete’s nose. “You fucking _asshole!”_

Pete can taste blood, coppery and bright, at the back of his tongue but Patrick’s still fighting, still struggling and he's slammed sideways by a particularly skilful flick of Patrick's hips. He would crash to the floor if there _was_ any fucking floor available for him to crash to. Instead he hits the back of the bench, hits an amp and, with a practised swing, hits Patrick, hard in the stomach.

“Fuck you!” Patrick wheezes, clutching his midsection. “That fucking _hurt,_ dickwad!”

He's flipped, twisted, dragged and pinned, forced under Patrick's body, hot breath in his ear as Patrick straddles him like a whispered threat in a dark alley, “D’you _really_ want to do this now, Wentz?”

“Do what?” He grabs at Patrick’s waistband, slips a hand easily down over the peach perfect curve of his ass, two fingers groping, sliding, fighting against a fiercely protesting Patrick who battles back, pushes and shoves, fights and snarls until he’s upright, pressed hard to the window and panting like a prayer, eyes wide under honey blonde bangs.

“Piss break,” Joe shouts from the front.

Pete would feel guilty if it wasn’t for the flash of Patrick’s cock, still hard, as he adjusts his jeans and fumbles for his hat, jerking it down over his eyes. Seventeen and full of hormones, come and lust, he’s a pretty picture to take advantage of and Pete can’t resist the urge to trail his fingertips over the curve of his cheekbone, a dark laugh rolling over his lips as Patrick jerks back, snaps up a fist in warning, “Swear to God, Pete… Swear to God…”

Pete sits, smirking, as Patrick climbs out of the van and hurries, head bent low, collar turned high, for the relative privacy of a restroom stall. Pete ponders and he decides it wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no and sometimes, just _sometimes_ , Patrick needs to be pushed in directions that make him uncomfortable. He needs to be stretched as taut as he’ll go until he’s struggling and pushing back and then - oh, then - there’s that delicious fucking _snap_ as he gives and breaks. It worked to get him singing and Pete is half drunk on shadowy columns of thick, hard flesh and the tender pucker of muscle between cheeks as pale and smooth as cream.

Pete thinks and Pete decides and, with a grin, Pete slips out of the van on soft soles and pads quietly after his bandmate. 

He would like to take a moment to refer back to his earlier observation - Patrick fucking Stump does _not_ pay attention to his surroundings - as he slips into the bathroom after him. There’s breathing heavy and heated from the single occupancy bathroom when Pete presses his ear to the door, groans and gasps that sound like murmured prayers and the slick of damp skin against skin. He can imagine dirty jeans pooled around ankles and Pete swears - when he touches the flimsy door just about where the small of Patrick’s back will be pressed - it burns under his touch. 

Pete pauses, palms flat to the door, flat to Patrick’s shoulders but for half an inch of plywood and tenses tight and hard. He shoves, hard - as hard as he can - with every ounce of strength he possesses. It’s not locked. Of course it's not fucking locked because Patrick _clearly_ doesn’t think to do these things with his cock in his hand. The door slams in and Patrick slams forward, tripping, stumbling, staggering as he brings his hands up in a desperate bid to save himself, catching himself against the cistern of the toilet with a yelp, “What the _fuck-”_

“Twice in one night?” Pete observes. Oh, Pete observes lots of things in that instant, the perfect curve of Patrick’s pale ass, the line of his thighs, his face flushed with lust and anger as he snarls a curse back over his shoulder. “You said my name.”

“I fucking _didn’t_ …” Patrick’s back and swinging, and Pete’s crushed to the door, Patrick’s hands tight around his throat and blue eyes blazing into him like fire and fury. “Go to hell, Pete… You… You _motherfucker_ …”

Pete could point out that Patrick’s running low on insults but _he’s_ running low on oxygen so he drags in a wheezing breath as he covers Patrick’s face with his palm and shoves back sharply, feels Patrick’s head snap back as the pressure on his windpipe abates. He follows, shoves Patrick face first to the stall wall, hands circling his wrists and pinning him still as he presses his hips forward with a growl, “You can’t feel it because of the jeans,” Pete whispers, Patrick snickers low in his throat in response, mutters something uncomplimentary about _“and your fucking baby dick,”_ that Pete chooses to ignore, “but I’m so fucking hard for you right now, it’s unreal.”

Patrick pulls tight against him, ass pressed back salaciously, “Yeah? Well, that’s because you’re a fucking slut. You’re… You’re a fucking _marlot.”_

“What the fuck,” Pete asks, pausing to suck a hard, bright mark to Patrick’s neck, “is a marlot?”

“A male harlot, dipshit,” Patrick groans, low and resonant as Pete works a hand between the wall and his hips. Patrick’s all bright, sharp mouth and thick, hard cock, already slick and slippery against Pete’s palm, veins standing out against teasing fingertips. Pete’s nothing but hot breath against soft skin as he murmurs quietly into Patrick’s ear, “Already lubed, huh?”

“I know what I like,” Patrick snaps back defiantly, watching Pete from the corner of his eye, cheek still pressed to the cool smoothness of the stall wall, fingers splayed out like anchors, “and that doesn’t involve rubbing spit all over my dick.”

Pete drops to his knees to fumble in Patrick’s pocket, a smirk bright on his lips when he finds the little pink tube, “Strawberry flavour? How fucking _adorable_ , princess…”

“We’re in the middle of fucking Iowa, I’ll take what I can get,” Patrick growls, hand groping back to snatch at a fistful of Pete’s hair, tight, stinging pain rippling in exquisite waves across his scalp as he’s dragged to Patrick’s ass. Ravening hands grasp at peach pale flesh, dragging and pulling, spreading him open with nails sinking into skin like velvet, his tongue pressed flat and broad and swiping, hot and wet, against the tight, twitching pucker between his cheeks, delicately flecked with fine, blonde hair. He tastes of day old sweat and chemical sweetness - the lube, Pete realises, he must have been fingering himself while he jerked off - and Pete is fucking _insane_ for him. “Come on, fucker, at least _act_ like you’re actually into it… You eat ass like you play bass…” 

“What’s _that_ supp-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as Patrick slams back into him and he fumbles, hands braced out to save himself, as he thumps ass first onto the dirty tiles and Patrick falls on him like a predator. He barely has time to take it in, definitely doesn’t have time to react, before he has a face full of Patrick’s surprisingly big, undeniably hard dick - a thick, pink cock on a pretty-faced boy - until the come-slicked tip is pressed to his lips as hands tangle in his hair once more, “Maybe you’re better at sucking dick, least you can’t talk with your mouth full.”

Pete would very dearly like to prove Patrick wrong but it’s hard to answer back around a mouthful of satiny skin. But he can suck dick - bitch, _please_ , he’s Pete fucking Wentz, the Master of Make Out, the Archbishop of Ass, the fucking _Duke of Dick_ \- and yanks at his belt and zipper as Patrick fucks into his greedy, grasping mouth all sighs and groans and desperate stuttering hips. He likes this Patrick best, the one without a fucking smartmouth comment on his lips, the one with his head dropped forward and eyes closed, lips parted lush and soft as first kisses. Of course, the kid has to fucking _ruin_ everything by speaking, just as Pete’s starting to get into him, “I’m gonna fuck you through the goddamn _floor_ , Wentz.”

He’s caged in shadows cast by Patrick’s body leaning over him, arms bracketed against the wall and hair falling around his face. Patrick’s all golden kid bathed in golden light and Pete’s the darkness beneath, the swirling temptation that calls from the depths of half-remembered dreams like a siren. Bad decisions are Pete’s calling card and he can be Patrick’s worst yet, “Oh, fuck you,” that lost some of it’s elegance on the way to his mouth, but the sentiment rings true, “who says you’re fucking me?”

“In three days time, when your dick still aches, you tell me who fucked who,” Patrick smirks, lush lips tucked up in a smirk that doesn’t waver even as Pete drags him down to straddle his hips and tries - he tries so hard - to think of a snappy retort.

“Just shut the fuck up.” It’s the best he can do, the absolute limit of his vocabulary as Patrick pushes back, drops his head, and sucks his cock down like he was fucking _born_ to suck dick. He scrambles uselessly against the floor with his heels, a hand sunk into Patrick’s halo of honey blonde hair, the other groping back behind his head to grip the edge of the sink. His hips arch and his thighs tense, muscles corded and tight as Patrick grips into his thighs, greedy groans and snuffling sighs slipping over those _fucking lips_ that slick up and down his shining-slick, blood-dark cock. Each suck, each curl of a talented pink tongue, each time the blunt head of his dick hits the back of Patrick’s hot, wet throat is like electricity over his skin, it’s jolting shocks of passion sparking in the dissonant thrum of his heart that sends waves rolling through his heaving, heavy lungs to tingle at the furthest reaches of his body. This - _this_ \- is the very purpose, the very epicentre of his being, this fucking beautiful boy on his knees in a bathroom stall, hot mouth, flickering tongue and big, hard cock clutched in pale, soft hands.

“Yeah,” Pete grunts, twisting like he’s trying to defy gravity, “Fuck, you’re good at that…”

Patrick’s kicking, struggling, writhing, moaning fit to burst as he tugs at his cock, sucks on Pete’s prick and fights his way out of his jeans, Converse and denim abandoned as he mumbles around a mouthful of dick - Pete’s dick, Pete’s tingling, throbbing, twitching dick, “Where’s the lube?”

He can’t reply beyond an explosive cry that bursts from pursed lips and blown cheeks, both hands fisted into Patrick’s hair as he fucks up into his mouth in delicious desperation. Patrick shoves back, shining lips and glittering eyes, a smirking boy stroking himself like a fucking promise, “I’m bigger than you.”

“If this were high school, I might give a fuck,” Pete snarls, knowing it’s true, hand slipping to cup the solid, heated weight of Patrick’s cock. There’s a birthmark, he notices - no, a tan smudge of a freckle - right on the head and he brushes a kiss to it on instinct, tasting the tang of bitter pre-come. “Cute.”

Patrick doesn’t reply, just presses the lube - retrieved from under the sink - into Pete’s hand. He spreads his thighs - pale as cream, braced over the latte sinew of Pete’s, a sharp and beautiful contrast - and issues formal invitation with riptide eyes. Pete’s a fumbling mess, giddy with the promise of it as he slicks up his fingers and circles the tender pucker of Patrick’s hole. It’s delicate under the rough callous of his fingers, the give of it soft as butter as he presses a testing fingertip inside, feels Patrick clench and shudder around him, “You ever done this before?”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Patrick rolls his eyes, rolls his hips and rolls his stiff dick against Pete’s and that’s enough, that’s all the invitation he needs to press that finger in deep, adds a second and strokes, teases, presses. “That’s _not_ my fucking spot, asshole, try again.”

“You’re not really in any fucking position to throw around the word “asshole,” shithead,” Pete growls, satisfaction blooming bright in his gut as he - _fuck yes_ \- finds that spot, as Patrick spasms against him with a guttural groan, as nails sink into his shoulders through the armour of his hoodie and shirt. Teeth find his throat, dull and dragging, graze a blazing trail along his jaw and then there’s a kiss - their first - hard and forceful, like a hold up, like angry demands. Patrick licks into his mouth - tongue hot and damp and flavoured with Dr Pepper and Teddy Grahams - and it’s exquisite, it’s everything Pete didn’t know he wanted and all he thinks he needs right now, right in this very second of perfect time on this grimy tile floor in a rest stop bathroom, one hand fisted in a stupid Guys Gone Wild shirt the other palm-flush in the tight heat of Patrick’s ass. Yeah, he could get used to this.

He grunts as teeth sink into his lip, tastes a bright burst of blood against his tongue as he presses in a third finger, gasps a curse as talented, slippery fingers circle his cock, slicking him up as Patrick whimpers into his mouth, “Gonna fuck you now, motherfucker, before they come looking.”

He nods, because of _course_ he fucking nods, he’s not going to _argue_ with the kid grasping his hips and urging them forward, shoving and tugging at him until he’s cross-legged and leaning back, shoulders braced to the cold tiles. Patrick grins, cocky and arrogant, as he reaches for the flushed, leaking column of Pete’s cock and holds him steady as - slowly, agonisingly slowly - he takes the first inch with a gasped curse, “Okay… Fuck… You feel a lot bigger than you look.”

It’s deserved, Pete decides, as he grabs Patrick’s narrow hips and presses up into tight, hot, slippery smooth perfection, muscle and skin clenching around his cock as Patrick mouths with desperate, keening whines against his neck, “I _don’t_ have a tiny dick.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re ruining it,” Patrick groans, sweat beading on his brow as he shudders against Pete like desperate, burning desire, “I’m gonna fuck you and you’re gonna get me off and you _not_ gonna fucking _speak.”_

Pete starts to laugh, a dark chuckle that curls from him like smoke but the noise is lost to contracting lungs and strangled groans as Patrick, with expertise no seventeen year old should have, starts to rock on Pete’s dick. He’s pinned helplessly by the position, legs folded up and just enough stretch back for his shoulders to touch the wall to keep him half off balance. Patrick smirks as he watches the realisation creep across Pete’s face, watches him realise he absolutely _is_ the one being fucked, hears his low, taunting laugh. He’ll fuck the smirk right off that kid’s face, he decides, the thought dying as Patrick clenches tight around him.

Patrick rides him like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing, the only thing pumping blood through his veins, his lips a hot mess of teeth and spit against Pete’s as he grabs his hand, laces their fingers and wraps them around the heavy heat of his cock. Patrick’s hot to the touch, burning, slick and slippery and Pete has no idea if it’s lube or the delicate pearlescent leak of pre-come under his skin and leaving sparkling smudges against his black shirt. His hips ache, his thighs cramp but it doesn’t matter, the brilliant, burning points of pain the perfect counterpoint the slick slide of Patrick against his cock like a fucking testament to every fuck-fuelled lyric Pete’s ever written.

He’s close, poised on a knife edge of _needs_ and _wants_ and the illicit thrill of fucking his best friend during a one am bathroom break. Patrick is moaning, head thrown back to expose the pale curve of his throat, hand still working his dick as his ass works Pete’s, “Fucking come for me, Pete, come on…”

But this is a war, a battle for who’s going to come first, who’s going to give in to those _needs_ and those _wants_ and shatter to pieces and Pete’s as grimly determined as he is fucking horny that it won’t be him. No fucking way. He won’t be outpaced by some kid that still isn’t old enough to vote. Teeth sink into a soft neck, the hot breath of a whimper against the shell of his ear enough to make his hips jerk and his cock twitch as he hisses, voice dark with venom, “No, _you_ fucking come.”

The smile on Patrick’s face is delicious, it’s pure fucking sex and undisguised desire as his eyes gleam dangerously. He hitches up his shirt, knocks Pete’s hand from his cock and curls a hand around the back of Pete’s neck before leaning back and putting himself completely on display. Thighs like milk, pale stomach hitching and his prick, flushed pink and twitching, curving up like whispered obscenities - debauched, unashamed and decadently perfect. Pete’s heart ticks in time with the throbbing of his cock, hips still rolling like waves against Patrick’s, lungs grasping greedily at what seems like limited oxygen in the room as Patrick, with orchestrated precision, reaches for his cock with a little mewling moan, “Oh, Pete… Oh, _fuck, Pete!”_

He times it with a perfect series of hard thrusts, pulls every muscle taut around Pete’s aching, throbbing, pulsing cock and it’s all at once too much and nowhere close to enough. His release hits him like a train wreck, like furious fists, like brick walls at high speed and he’s lost. Pete breaks. He shatters down into nothing more than atoms, dust and shrapnel and broken pieces that sing with energy and pure soaring bliss. He thrums with stuttering hips and wordless lips that fall apart in silent screams, drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears as his heart blasts a messy beat against his heaving lungs. He feels it everywhere, every fibre of his body, every nerve and every inch screaming - _yes, yes, YES, oh fuck, Patrick! PATRICK!_ \- as he fights for air, fights for everything to tip the right way up once more.

Patrick waits - because of _course_ Patrick fucking waits - until Pete is capable of holding eye contact, even if he’s not capable of much else and, still wearing that shit-eating grin, he grinds down onto Pete’s softening cock and strokes deliberately at his own. Pete whines at the sensation, cries out raggedly as taut muscle pulls at his aching dick - Patrick wasn’t fucking kidding - then moans, low and needy as Patrick comes with a groan of his name, thick, white ribbons decorating Pete’s shirt, sliding over Patrick’s knuckles like sins Pete has no intention of atoning for. Spent, Patrick tips his head onto Pete’s shoulder and nuzzles gently at his throat, peppering the skin with biting kisses, “Mmm, Pete?”

He slides his fingers into dirty blonde hair that smells of sweat, the stale air of the van and _Patrick_ , “Yeah?”

“I win,” the words are soft as gentle caresses, underscored by a throaty little chuckle, “and you fucking _stink.”_

“It’s the fucking lube, dude,” Pete groans as Patrick slips off him, stretches out stiff and cramping legs. “I can’t believe you put that shit on your dick, like, out of choice.”

Patrick doesn’t reply beyond another low laugh as he drags his clothes back on and rinses his hands at the sink. Pete follows shakily, no longer entirely sure of the ground under his feet, much less what happens to next, what happens to _them_. Patrick seems to read his mind as he tugs up his hood and shoots him a bright, blinding grin, barreling into him with a solid shoulder, “We good?”

Pete laughs, his own bray of tuneless mirth clashing harshly with Patrick’s melodious chuckle, “Yeah, man. We’re good.”

They find Andy and Joe in the van, arguing over the radio and glaring at them with quiet, self-righteous fury. Joe snarls around a mouthful of grease and trans fats, “Where the _fuck_ did you go?”

“Pete was looking for porn,” Patrick sing songs as he slumps back into his bench, shuffling along and patting the space next to him. Pete grins and flops down, head in Patrick’s lap and feet kicked up on Andy’s snare. 

“Gross,” Andy grimaces as he slips the van into drive and noses out of the parking lot. They roll down the freeway and Pete feels his eyes grow heavy as Patrick cards gentle fingers through his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. Joe’s voice pierces the darkness in plaintive inquiry, “Fuck… Can anyone else smell strawberries?”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise to the people of Iowa and I'm sure you have plenty of places to purchase a variety of sexual lubricants. I'm fairly new to writing bottom!Patrick so if I got this all wrong, just... I'm sorry.
> 
> Feedback is nice, it only takes a minute to leave a comment and even less to click the kudos button and I will love you forever. I'm also over on Tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers.


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